Among My Lambs
by William Griner
Summary: Patrick Jane finds help from an unexpected source when he investigates a brutal attack on a young woman. In the process, Jane must ask hard questions about his own beliefs and motivations as a CBI consultant.
1. Chapter 1

Among My Lambs

"Back so soon, Patrick?"

The pastor wasn't even looking up from the open book on his desk when the man with the curly golden hair appeared in the doorway to his study. A typical cop's curiosity would be piqued: _How did you know it was me?_  
Patrick Jane didn't fit the typical build. As a consultant for the California Bureau of Investigation, he lacked the authority that a badge gave the people he worked and interacted with on every case. Owing to his past professional life as a con man and psychic, however, Jane never missed a trick, and he flashed his most disarming smile at the Rev. Dr. Byrd Twilley when the older man finally glanced up from his Bible.

"What gave me away?" Jane asked. "The aftershave?"

Twilley shook his head. "Your choice of footwear. I'd hear a police officer coming from a mile away."

If Jane was surprised, he didn't show it. Instead, the CBI consultant entered the small study, seized a book at random from a shelf and thumbed through it wordlessly.

"Which particular work is that?" Twilley said. He remained seated.

Jane leaned against the wall. "'A Grief Observed.'"

"C.S. Lewis," the pastor said, nodding. "You may borrow it, if you choose."

Jane cocked an eyebrow. "And why would I do that?"

Twilley leaned forward and said matter-of-factly, "Because there is a lot of sadness in you." The younger man turned his head ever so slightly at the comment. "I see it in the eyes. That big grin of yours is probably useful for getting people to talk, but it hides nothing."

Jane closed the book but continued to hold it. "Are you worried that I've come back to get you to talk?"

Twilley pushed his 62-year-old frame slowly out of the computer chair and pointed to a coffee machine resting on a small table in the corner. Styrofoam cups, sugar and stirring sticks sat next to the half-filled pot. "I take you for a tea drinker," Twilley said, "but maybe you won't mind some coffee while we discuss your case."

As Jane helped himself to the brew, he studied the walls, decorated as they were with framed certificates from seminary as well as personal photographs. One picture in particular caught the consultant's attention, a group shot that captured a younger, clean-shaven Twilley amid a squad of uniformed troops. "The first Gulf War," Twilley volunteered.

"Chaplain?"

"Oh, no. Eighty-second Airborne."

Jane sipped from the Styrofoam. "So, you know what it's like to take someone's life?"

"More than one someone." Jane turned away from the wall and fixed his blue eyes on the pastor. Twilley continued: "We captured thousands of Iraqis during the liberation of Kuwait. Unfortunately," he said, shrugging, "too many didn't want to be captured."

"And how do you reconcile that past with your current occupation?"

"Probably the same way that you do, Patrick."

The consultant tilted his head slightly. Whether amused, rattled or annoyed, his expression betrayed nothing. An awkward silence filled the small room. Finally, as if to let Jane off the hook for something unspoken, Twilley smiled good-naturedly and said, "I was a different kind of man years ago, just as you were, but my road to Damascus turning point isn't what you're here to discuss. It's the more recent past that concerns you, correct?"

Jane pulled up another chair as a subtle signal. He would not be leaving the church office until he heard the answers he wanted. Before the consultant could pose a question, however, the pastor said, "How is Isabelle?"

"Still in critical condition. The CBI is attempting to contact her family, but …" Jane's voice trailed off.

"She left difficult circumstances in her country. Maybe the church's international network could help locate her parents' village."

"The nurses at the ICU said you had visited her, inquiring about her condition." Jane paused there to sip more coffee.

"I would assume," Twilley said, "that the CBI would take some interest in Isabelle's visitors."

"Oh?" Jane asked innocently. "Why is that?"

Any trace of a smile disappeared from the pastor's face. "Don't play dumb, Patrick. Whoever raped and half killed that girl, I want to see them punished as badly as you do."

"Interesting choice of words," Jane said, pointing at the older man. "You didn't say 'locked up behind bars,' which would equal the law taking its normal course, you said –"

"Punished," the pastor repeated. His voice rose with intensity as he spoke. "Let me elaborate and complete the thought for you: Punished so badly that the person responsible regrets that they were ever born. That's what I meant, Patrick. Animals take from other animals to survive. Whoever preyed on Isabelle Gallegos? They did so for one reason: It made them happy. They wanted to, and they must have figured that they could get away with it."

"Taking it a little personal, aren't we?"

Twilley, who made his living talking behind a pulpit, seemed momentarily at a loss for words. When he found his tongue again, his tone was slow, quiet.

"That child wandered into our soup kitchen because she had nowhere else to go. Victimized at every turn on the streets. Members here fed her, took an interest in her as a person. My wife Suzanne has been working with Isabelle on learning English well enough to earn a GED, maybe to tech school. Find a future outside the fields." Twilley sighed wearily. "Yes, Patrick, I take what happened personally … just as you do. I noticed that you came here alone, without the rest of the CBI team, Agents Lisbon and Cho. Perhaps they are just following up on other leads, or maybe they've chosen to move on, but you … you want to see justice served, don't you?"

Patrick avoided the question. "At the risk of sounding cynical, Dr. Twilley –"

"Call me Byrd."

"Yes … at the risk of sounding a wee bit cynical, Byrd, you've put quite a bit of time and resources into helping Isabelle. I saw her in person. Even bruised, battered, she's still beautiful. Some men, particularly the ones who have put that much of an investment into an attractive young woman, might feel as if they deserve a return of some sort."

Twilley nodded slowly and put his hands together to form a steeple. It was the kind of gesture he might use to convey a spiritual point when addressing his congregation.

"Times change, but the sinful human condition doesn't," the pastor said. "There are people, whether in business or government or even the church, who use their positions to prey on the weak. It was true in Jesus' time. It's still true today. That's why you and I have the jobs we do, Patrick."

"My job," the consultant said, "is to bring a predator to justice."

"Of course. So …"

Twilley stood once more and held his hands out, away from his body.

"Get to the question that you came all the way back here to ask me, Patrick."


	2. Afflicting the Comfortable

Patrick Jane breezed into the interview room at the CBI headquarters and took the empty seat next to Special Agent Kimball Cho. Across the table were two other men, Howard D'Alesandro and his corporate attorney, Ruben Sikes.

"Miss anything?" Jane asked.

Cho shook his head. By way of introduction: "Gentlemen, this is CBI consultant—"

"I know who he is," D'Alesandro said in an irritated growl.

Sikes, adopting a more collegial air, reached across the table to shake hands. Jane ignored the gesture and crossed his arms stiffly. To Sikes, Jane said, "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Why is that?"

"Navigating the twists and turns of the tax code won't help your client in his current predicament." Nodding in D'Alesandro's direction, Jane said, "He needs someone well versed in criminal law."

The millionaire vineyard owner's face reddened. "What is this guy getting at, Ruben?" To Cho, he said, "Criminal law? You people asked me to give some background on this Isabelle person, her employment with my company."

"Your wife's company," Jane interjected.

"Our company," D'Alesandro said, pounding the metal table with his beefy fist. "Busy as I am, I traipse down here in person to help you people do your job, and this guy," he said, finger pointed at Jane, "makes out like I'm in the lineup? You better watch yourself, pal, 'cos all I gotta do is call my friend the governor and –"

"Calm down, Howard," Sikes said, frowning. "I'm sure that Agent Cho will be more than happy to bring Mr. Jane up to speed."

"Of course." Cho, face betraying nothing, placed his palms flat on the table. "Gentlemen, let me set the record straight if there is any misunderstanding about why the CBI is interviewing Mr. D'Alesandro."

The millionaire smirked at the consultant.

Cho glanced at Jane.

"Truth is," Jane said, "you are a suspect, Howard."

"That's it," D'Alesandro snapped, rising from the table.

"Wait, Howard, I want to know –"

"Let's get outta here, Ruben, these people –"

"No," Jane said quietly to D'Alesandro. "Sit back down this moment."

Despite the fact that he was a 56-year old businessman accustomed to having other people follow his orders, D'Alesandro complied. His mouth moved and nothing came out. Cho watched the man warily. The millionaire wore a white Polo deliberately chosen because it was a size too small and accentuated shoulders, arms and a chest that had seen many hours of gym time. Jane was pushing this man, who was used to relying on his social status and even physical prowess to get his way, and it was not unusual for such men to suddenly reach across the room to snatch a handful of Jane's sports coat attempt to pummel him. But no, a strange dynamic was brewing within the confines of the interview room, as Jane the consultant deliberately placed himself between the millionaire and the interview room door, which symbolized access to all of D'Alesandro's resources. Cho couldn't help but think that the millionaire was looking more and more like a scared six-year old.

Jane continued. "Not used to hearing the word 'no,' are you, Howard? Isabelle Gallegos told you no when you wanted to have sex with her. Is that what provoked you?" To Cho, Jane said, "How dare that little snip of a Mexican girl say no to the great man?"

D'Alessandro found his voice enough to say, "Ruben, get my wife's office on the phone this instant."

"U.S. Sen. Gloria D'Alesandro," Jane said thoughtfully. "Yes, yes, yes – known to those around Congress as

"U.S. Sen. Gloria D'Alesandro," Jane said thoughtfully. "Known to those around the halls of Congress as 'the Botoxed beast.' But you married her for the family money, not for her looks, which explains that penchant of yours for preying on young, attractive women." He waved a hand dismissively. "Anyway, the senator won't be available at the moment. According to cable news, she's on the Senate floor as we speak, rallying votes for another organized labor bill. Don't you find that odd, Ruben?"

"The senator's proud support of unions is no secret, Mr. Jane."

Cho said, "My associate, Grace Van Pelt, dug into your company and discovered a noticeable lack of union contracts. As a matter of fact, employees who dare to mention the word 'union' on D'Alesandro property are shown the door."

"What do my client's business interests have to do with a rape investigation, Agent Cho?"

Jane answered. "That digging was prompted by random curiosity on my part. It tends to highlight certain patterns of behavior. Sen. D'Alesandro was the keynote speaker at the AFL-CIO meeting because she's facing a tough race this year. She needs union backing. At the same time, she tows the Chamber of Commerce's line on keeping our borders open. What's the correlation?" To Cho and Sikes, Jane said, "You don't think Howard and Gloria are going to pick their own grapes, do you? They hire from the immigrant population. A big plantation, stocked full of cheap labor, with the D'Alesandros as the overseers."

"Undocumented workers aren't going to be bold enough to make waves," Cho said. "Your vineyard counts on that, doesn't it?"

Before a sputtering D'Alesandro could answer, Jane cut him off. "There's more to it than greed though. Right, Howard? You've been successful up to this point in bullying women who need work. Isabelle Gallegos – well, she shifted the paradigm a bit. Learned English, began to educate herself."

D'Alesandro was seething, but before he said anything, his attorney whispered in his ear.

Sikes said, "You've thrown some wild speculation around, Mr. Jane, but you are still at Square 1. My client has cooperated with the investigation from the moment he first heard about Miss Gallegos' assault. And while he was under no obligation to provide a positive defense, Mr. D'Alesandro has an airtight alibi, easily corroborated."

"Agent Cho?" D'Alesandro called. "You awake? Or do we need to go up the chain and get Agent Lisbon in here to put your pal in his place?"

Cho said to Jane, "Did you talk to Teresa on your way in?"

"Just now," Jane answered. "And based on the new information that has come to light," he said, head turning to scan each face in the interview room, "the CBI is devoting resources for a more thorough accounting of your time."

D'Alesandro scowled, whispered to his attorney. "Jane is saying," Sikes shot back, "that they're digging into your alibi. What he hasn't told us," Sikes said, facing the consultant, "is why."

"It started out as a hunch," Jane said, adopting a professorial air as he explained. "The CBI contacted Howard's office in the course of nailing down Isabelle Gallegos' activities before her assault. Agent Cho asked a few routine questions, nothing that might lead anyone to believe we had a person of interest. And yet …" Jane paused here for effect and locked his eyes on D'Alesandro. "And yet you were more than willing to give us a timeline, a list of people, anything we needed to eliminate you as a suspect."

"That's a reasonable thing to do –" Sikes began.

Cho cut him off. "If your client was indeed a suspect. He wasn't."

"So," Jane said, dragging the word out, "process kicked in, and the initial assessment was that of course Howard D'Alesandro was where he said he was. Why? Because he's Howard D'Alesandro. Then, just on a lark, I back tracked and actually interviewed the people comprising Howard's airtight alibi, asked the relevant questions. Guess what that alibi looks like now, Ruben? Think of a big red balloon, floating up here at chest level, and I'm holding a sharp, shiny needle."

D'Alesandro inhaled, exhaled loudly. Brows furrowed, Cho dropped his chin and leaned forward against the table. He was ready for whatever might happen in this room.

"Listen to me, Jane. You don't realize who you're messing with, trying to put some cheap –"

Sikes interrupted. "Don't lose your composure over someone who isn't even a law enforcement officer. Remember the research I did. We should be more understanding of Mr. Jane, given his past history of mental breakdowns."

Jane smiled, watching this interaction.

"I'm gonna wipe that stupid grin off that mug of yours," D'Alesandro said with a hiss. "I will take your job and sue you for everything you hold dear."

The consultant sat in silence for a moment. His head dipped, as if he was lost in thought, and then he raised it to stare at the men across the table. The overhead light shone in his blue eyes in such a way that they resembled small chips of ice. When he spoke, Jane's voice was low, emphatic.

"Want my job? Take it, it's yours. As you stated earlier, I'm a consultant. Want everything I hold dear? Sorry, a serial killer named Red John already beat you to the punch. I'm sure your research filled you in on how I made a fortune as a psychic. That is, until the night Red John came into my nice house and took my family from me. I more or less fell into the consulting business after that.

"My job now? I catch evil men and send them to prison. Agent Cho will attest to the fact that I have an impressive record of closing cases. But it's not about investigations or convictions for me. My motivation, Howard, is that in every evil person I chase, I see a piece of Red John. Now, you alluded to my past mental breakdown. Sure, the death of my wife and daughter did a number on me. The work I do for the CBI is a wonderful coping mechanism. If someone that had that piece of Red John in them were to take away my coping mechanism, who knows what would happen? Psychologically, I would probably fixate on that person as the instrument of my destruction."

Jane leaned forward so that D'Alesandro could see the hardness in his blue eyes.

"Can you imagine someone as smart, dangerous and crazy as I am," he said, "with nothing but time on their hands? Time to sit and obsess about how someone like you hurt them?"

Jane slapped his palm on the table, a pistol shot in the room.

D'Alesandro jumped. Recovered quickly.

"Of course, Howard, you're not much like Red John at all. I mean, you're both evil, you definitely share that trait, but he is at least intelligent. You? All I see is a spoiled, aging frat boy who has always used his wife's money and power to bully his way out of problems of his own making. The life you've wasted, spending it as you have preying on people who couldn't fight you? It's over, Howard."

Jane rose from the table, turned his back and stepped to the door. He paused long enough for a glance over his shoulder.

"I'm coming for you, Howard, and there won't be anywhere to run."


	3. Comforting the Afflicted

The Methodist Hospital of Sacramento opened its doors during visiting hours to the tall man in a sports coat who walked purposefully to the elevator. At the third-floor nurses' station, Patrick Jane was told that Isabelle Gallegos was not only awake but had also been released from critical condition. The door to her room was open, and he found Isabelle sitting up in bed and talking with an attractive, middle-aged woman.

Jane smiled and introduced himself. Isabelle's visitor gave her name as Suzanne Twilley.

"I'm sure Mr. Jane has some official business to discuss with you, Isabelle. I'll go get some coffee downstairs, OK?"

"Gracias, Mrs. Twilley."

Jane stood by and watched the interaction between the two. Suzanne patted him warmly on the arm as she exited. After she had exited, Jane said, "Isn't she your pastor's wife?"

Isabelle nodded, wincing at the effort. "They have been very good to me. She wants me to live with them for a while until I get on my feet."

"Their church isn't Catholic, is it?"

Confused, Isabelle mouthed a "no."

"I suppose I was wondering why they were so eager to help," Jane observed.

"It didn't seem to matter to them when I came to the soup kitchen for the first time."

Jane gazed out the hospital window momentarily, then turned back. He studied the young woman lying there, body still bearing the bruises from her ordeal, and he felt his fists clench involuntarily.

"The other police officer, Mr. Cho," Isabelle said. "He told me that Pastor Twilley talked to you."

Jane nodded. It took a moment before he could speak without his voice cracking. It was Isabelle Gallegos, a South American immigrant, in the room with him, but his brilliant mind was playing tricks. The image of a strawberry blonde woman with brown eyes appeared, and he whispered a name.

"Who is Angela?"

The spell was broken.

"Just someone from my past," Jane answered, shaking his head. "Anyway, your pastor friend played an important part in the investigation. He confirmed what we needed to know about D'Alesandro."

"And you're wondering why."

The male voice at the door caught Jane and Gallegos' attention. Pastor Byrd Twilley, dressed casually in a white Polo shirt and jeans, stepped inside and greeted them.

To Isabelle, Jane said, "The CBI will stay in touch if you need anything." As he brushed past Twilley, he said, "I'll leave you two in peace."

Jane wandered down to the first-floor lobby and was fishing for money to put in a coffee machine when he heard Twilley's voice calling to him. "Patrick? I wanted to thank you for all the work you put into the case."

"How long have you known about D'Alesandro?"

"I suspected," Twilley said, "given his healthy sense of entitlement."

"A member of your own church?"

"It's not unheard of for bad people to donate to charities, go to church or support certain political causes, all as a cover. Look in the Bible, Patrick. Twelve disciples. Even from that small flock, one of them betrayed their master." The pastor frowned in thought. "My theology doesn't ignore the truth that we live in a fallen world."

Jane reached into the machine for his paper cup and took a sip. "D'Alesandro could make a lot of trouble for you. Why take the risk?"

"I could ask you the same question, Patrick."

Twilley inserted his own money into the machine and withdrew a cup. "Since my Army days, I've always taken it black."

The two men stood in the lobby for a long moment, pretending that their coffee was important while they sized each other up in silence. The moment passed, and Jane opened his hand toward Twilley. "Why do you believe in God?"

Twilley pursed his lips. "You ask a serious question, Patrick. Do you want a serious answer?"

"The world is filled with belief systems," Jane said. "Some are built on the idea of a deity, others say you work toward a sense of enlightenment and reach a higher plane in the next life. Who is right?"

The pastor leaned back against the wall. "Given your skepticism, I'm sure you belong in a whole other camp. Many people dismiss the idea of gods and belief systems altogether. Perhaps you're one of those minds who say that we are all the product of chance. Cosmic accidents, floating in an otherwise indifferent universe."

Jane sipped his drink and waited.

"Patrick, I don't for a second believe that you went after millionaire Howard D'Alesandro just because it's your job. How many other people, who are sworn to uphold the law as part of their jobs, were ready to take Howard at his word that he was donating his time at the soup kitchen when Isabelle was attacked? You put your own livelihood at risk to go after him. It wasn't about upholding the law. That's a paycheck. It's about justice with you. I saw you a moment ago, when you were watching over Isabelle. The fire that burned in the Old Testament prophets is in your eyes."

Jane opened his mouth, but Twilley continued.

"Before you scoff, let me just ask: Does a product of chance, floating in an otherwise indifferent universe, really care about justice?"

"Our shared survival as a species," Jane said quietly, "hinges on protecting each other."

"Ah," Twilley said. "Play devil's advocate … as if the devil needs more advocates. He's doing pretty well for himself, he doesn't need more help in this world, Patrick. In the great scheme of things, does a poor immigrant girl like Isabelle Gallegos matter to the, uh, survival of the whole species? To put it all too frankly, no. She's just one hurting child, hardly worth the effort in the great economy of human affairs.

"Patrick, you're burning to punish Howard D'Alesandro because it's the right thing to do. You want to protect Isabelle for the same reason."

Jane laughed mockingly to break the tension. "You know so much about me."

"Actually, just a little. I know what was taken away from you. Angela, Charlotte Anne."

"God told you all this?"

Now Twilley laughed.

"I have the Internet," the pastor said, patting Jane's arm in a fatherly gesture. "I couldn't help doing a little research." Twilley drained the last sip of his coffee. "Your daughter was innocent, and yet she was murdered. There are others who have a son."

Even though his cup was still half full, Jane stepped away and dropped it in a nearby trash can in the corner. When he turned back to the pastor, the smile on his face didn't touch his eyes.

"While this conversation has been illuminating," he said, with a theatrical shrug, "I need to cut it short and get back to the CBI." Gesturing upward, Jane said, "For whatever reasons, Isabelle trusts you and your wife. Don't let her down."

The pastor nodded wearily.

Twilley moved toward the elevator and tapped in the button for the third floor. Jane was walking toward the exit. The pastor, standing there, noticed that the other man paused once, glanced back over his shoulder, as if he might return. Perhaps there was some nagging question still bothering him.

A second later, Jane had moved on.

The sliding doors zipped close.

The night enveloped him.


End file.
